A Good Dog Is Hard To Find
by silver ruffian
Summary: Coyote/Dean versus the Dog Whisperer. "Us canines have to stick together." That's what Coyote believed, and that's what he always told his human pup, Dean. One angsty chapter and two crack. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Captive

_**A/N:**_ This is from the Coyote 'verse. If you haven't read _Dog Eat Dog_ or _Coyote's Tale_, here's the Reader's Digest version: One upon a time Coyote wanted a family, so the Powers That Be split him in two, trickster and human, and put him in a human body. Dean Winchester is Coyote's human half. They were supposed to merge, two-into-one. They didn't. Together Dean and Coyote brought John Winchester back from Hell, and now the Winchesters hang out at Bobby Singer's place a lot. Series title (and this might evolve into a series) paraphrased from _A Good Man Is Hard To Find_, by Flannery O'Connor.

Saints' Ghost, I know this is long overdue. You wanted Coyote and Dean versus the Dog Whisperer, and this is what came out. Here's the dark angsty version. My muse has been busy; she also cranked out a humorous version. This story is complete; will post remaining chapters Thursday and Saturday.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

_**Summary:**_ Coyote/Dean versus the Dog Whisperer. Here's the angst first: He had another life before this one, and even though he can't remember it much, he was probably a bad dog in that one. The crack version will be posted on Thursday.

* * *

_**Part 1 - Captive**_

He's a good dog now. They tell him that all the time, especially when he's in his cage. The cage (slick silver metal that burns when he touches it) was built especially for him, so all the fear inside belongs to him. The collar he wears (_My collar, he thinks dully to himself. Mine_) is heavy and thick and made of black leather, with all these funny symbols on it. He wears a leather muzzle too, carved with the same symbols. It's a matching set.

He was a Bad Dog before.

There was a time when he could remember what the symbols meant. Thinking makes his head hurt, a lot, so he doesn't bother with that much now.

Sometimes words float through that addled brain of his. Words like _Coyote_, and _Roamer_, and _First Artist_. His name, maybe? They're just words, that's all. They make his head hurt.

They call him Dog now. Sometimes "Good", sometimes "Bad."

"Bad Dog" is, well, not good. Whenever he hears that his ears and tail droop and his skin tightens. He knows whatever happens after he hears that is going to hurt.

Sometimes "Good Dog" is the same way. He gets them confused sometimes.

Most of the time "Good Dog" gets a little more food, or a treat followed by a pat on the head, and they might even give him some water, if he's lucky.

Dog had another life before this one, and even though he can't remember it much, he was probably a Bad Dog in that one. Wide open spaces, long stretches of highway, swirling red rocks, mountains in the distance and sandy desert soil underneath his paws. There was beer, pizza and laughter, salt and silver, flame, blood and yelling.

He's lost some things and he can barely recall what they were or where to look for them even if he did know exactly what they were.

Some days it's worth the headache he gets just to remember.

Dog remembers _uswebloodfamily_.

_JohnDad_, tall and dark, with a hearty, booming laugh. At one time Dog was afraid of him and he doesn't remember why. _Idjit_ is not _uswebloodfamily_, but close, very, very close; that memory's blue flannel and a big yard filled with metal shapes. _Sammy-is-a-chubby-four-year-old-damn-it_, Sasquatch tall, soft eyes and shaggy brown hair, and he asked all kinds of questions like he really wanted to know everything. Brat.

There was someone else. Battered brown leather and a slightly crooked grin. Dog can't remember the face, but this one loved pie and hamburgers and steam showers, purple nurples and just about any female with a pulse. The name slips out of Dog's shaggy head and breaks apart like a soap bubble.

Mistress doesn't want him to remember much more than that.

So Dog doesn't.

It's easier that way. Easier to just sit there with his tail between his legs and his head down as they poke jade needles dripping with white poison into him through the bars. Whenever he gets hit with one of those needles he really just doesn't give a damn. About everything. He's not happy, but he's not sad, either. Most days he just _is_. Everything he feels is so far away it feels like it's happening to someone else

He knows when they open up the cage and attach that leash to his collar that it's time to go for a walk then. Dog tries not to wag his tail too much, to show how pleased he is, otherwise they'll leave him to rot in there.

Getting out of the cage is always good.

Sometimes they let him out so he can chase things. Sometimes they let him eat what he catches. Dog can usually put a name to the things (_cat, rabbit and hu-man_). Cats and rabbits are good; he doesn't like the squirmy _hu-mans_ so much. They're pink or brown or peach colored, usually hairless.

All the screaming they do hurts his ears. They scream a lot.

He plays dumb and clumsy with the hu-mans and lets them run into those stone canyons or hide behind those funny looking rock walls. He could easily catch them or smash through the walls if he wanted to but he pretends he can't. One time he overheard Sepheon tell the Mistress that her "little wild dog has lost a step or two."

He doesn't mind letting them think that. That's being a Bad Dog, but if Mistress, Nast and the others knew he was faking he'd probably end up a Dead Dog, or at the very least, a Hurt one. It's all a part of being tricky. He knows _that _word. Not what it means, not exactly, but it's a good word and it makes him grin a little.

Nast takes Dog out of the cage to see Mistress once a day. She stands there all tall and regal in her scarlet and black robes and he deliberately doesn't look her in the eye. A good dog wouldn't do that, and he tries so hard to be a good dog. Sometimes he forgets.

She forgave him for how he acted when they dragged him back from where ever he was before. He's a little fuzzy on the details. The first rope came out of nowhere, somewhere, _somewhen_, and looped itself around his neck.

It took twenty of them to pull him in, and the ropes around his neck and body made him feel cold and sleepy (_fucking magic_) but he still snarled and bit and chewed up Nast's arm and bit Pton in two.

Didn't do any good; Nast laughed as his arm grew back together. The two halves of Pton grew into two Ptons and they both got up and started stomping Dog together.

Nast and his brothers (they all looked alike, tall and broad with dusty cracked faces like stone mountains) cornered him in the grey place and beat him with their clubbed hands. Dog couldn't move his hind legs for three days. They finally gave him a drink of water and a scrap of gristle to eat a day later.

It wasn't blueberry pie, but he ate it anyway.

That was the day he became a Good Dog.

Not long after that they took him out of the cage for the first time and Mistress told him to change his skin, so he did. He went two legged, because that was what she wanted. He stood there in front of her dark blue mirror and looked at himself: wide green eyes, broad shoulders. Most of his hair was on his head now; it was dark blond and spiky. His eyelashes were longer and darker than hers were, and she liked that. She ran her fingers over the spots on his chest and face _(Freckles. That was the word for them, wasn't it?),_ smudged that that full bottom lip of his with her thumb and he didn't try to pull back when she took him by the collar and led him over to the bed.

Dog howled when he came, and so did she.

That happens every day now. It must be part of being a good dog, and afterwards she digs her long red fingernails into his back and tells him it was good. He doesn't know for sure, but she's his Mistress, so he believes her. Her mouth tastes funny, like ashes, and her skin tastes sour. He nearly loses his breath when she kisses him, like she wants to take everything inside of him and swallow it all right down.

Maybe he should care more about that, but he doesn't.

He's always weak when she's finished and can barely walk afterwards. Sometimes Nast has to carry him back to his cage. Nast looks down at him with something like wonder: "You're a hard mutt to kill, Old Man."

Whatever "mutt" is, it's not "good dog", so he doesn't care about _that_, either.

* * *

Dog hears it before he even sees anything: a low, loud rumble that shakes the air. He's heard sounds like that before, in his dreams _(Back in black, I hit the sack, been so long it's good to be back)_ but he's gotten so now he ignores stuff like that. His world is just the cage and the leash, Mistress' bed and being clubbed even when he's good. There's nothing else, so why even bother to think about it?

The rumbling stops. And the screaming begins.

That's mildly interesting. Nothing he hasn't heard before, though, not around here. Hu-mans scream. Rabbits scream.

Dog lifts his head, cocks it to one side when he realizes that Nast and his brothers are the ones doing the screaming. It goes on for some time, but he can't see anything. The cage is in the yard behind the house, and after a while he loses interest and lays his head down on his paws.

There's death all around. Seems to be the day for it, and Dog just can't bring himself to care about that, either. Nast and his brothers are already dead. He senses it when Mistress dies in the house. She melts like a wax candle in a blast furnace.

_Fusce dignissim mollis sem, vel auctor dolor semper id. Etiam ultrices…_

The voice that kills her is familiar, deep and whiskey smooth, full of fire and fierceness, but Dog can't place it.

He's tired. His back hurts and so does his heart, deep inside. Mistress broke him the last time she touched him. Took too much from him inside and now he thinks he won't ever get it back. His heart beats slow and sluggish, and he thinks about letting it stop altogether. He wouldn't mind sleeping forever. His pelt's just as dry and dusty as the inside of him.

The door to the house opens as he sighs wearily and closes his eyes. He's just a dog, after all. Not even a good one anymore.

Running footsteps.

The top of the cage is torn off, and he's too tired to move.

"Old Man," someone whispers, and it's that voice again, the same one he heard inside the house. The fire's gone, filled with fear and worry instead. That bothers him somehow.

"Coyote?"

Dog opens his eyes, stares dully at the four men standing around the cage.

_Uswefamily scent. _

There's _JohnDad, Idjit, Sammy-is-a-chubby-four-year-old-damn-it_, and…and…

"I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner," the green-eyed boy whispers roughly. Dog stares up at him, struggles to put a name to that worried young face. Freckles, long dark lashes, wide green eyes. "That mojo they worked on you screwed with my head. I couldn't think straight. Scared the hell outta Dad, Bobby, and Sam."

The kid snaps his fingers, and the collar and the muzzle dissolves into wisps of grey smoke. Dog whimpers a little as the pain in his head and his body vanishes. He feels better. Strong fingers brush lovingly over his grayish brown coat and in that moment his real name flows over him, through him like cool water, and it doesn't hurt at all.

Coyote closes his eyes again and doesn't struggle as he's lifted up and out. The touch is rough and gentle and loving all at the same time. Roamer sighs as Dean Winchester cradles him to his chest. He tucks his head underneath the boy's chin and listens as their hearts beat as one, solid and steady.

"I got you, dude," Dean says softly. "I got you."

* * *

The crack version will be posted Thursday morning.


	2. Whisper This Part 1

_**A/N #1:**_ You've had the dark angst, now here's the crack. I have AU'd the Dog Whisperer in this. I imagine my version looks like Kelsey Grammer (Frasier), or if you prefer, Sideshow Bob (The Simpsons).

_**Pop culture reference:**_ "Time to nut up or shut up" and Garland, Texas taken from _Zombieland_.

_**A/N 2**__**nd**__**: **_Also, I have to give much much credit (or blame, depending on how you look at it) to SciFiNutTX. Her suggestions made this a much funnier story; she's my beta for this one. She put up with me, and I appreciate it very much. So _there_, woman!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural, _andI mean no disrespect to _The Dog Whisperer_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Whisper This - Part 1**_

_Phoenix, Arizona_

"Can't bark at the mailman anymore," Piper said sadly. "We had an understanding. No hard feelings. He did his job, and I did mine." She shook her head in disbelief. Piper was a cute cocker spaniel mix. Even though she was spayed, she was still a saucy little blonde number, but for once Coyote's mind wasn't on her tail or anyone else's that night. He sat there and listened to her story, nodded sympathetically, told her he'd see what he could do. Then it was on to the next city.

_St. Louis, Missouri _

"It's terrible," Bosco whispered sadly. "Just horrible." He was a German Shepherd/St. Bernard mix, big and burly. He reminded Coyote of Bear the kachina, but Bosco was a sad, dejected pup. "I had a good life before my people watched that show. Now if I even look at the table while they're eating I get corrected. No more table scraps."

"Heartless bastards," Coyote muttered darkly to himself.

_Boston, Massachusetts_

"They went out and got a crate," Gus the black and white Great Dane mumbled. "They call it a crate, I call it what it is: a cage. They used to think whatever I did was cute. Not anymore. I make a move, I go in the crate. I play too rough with one of my own darn toys, I go in the crate."

Coyote shuddered at the thought of being locked up in one of those damn things for hours on end.

_Garland, Texas_

"Yeah, we dug some holes in the back yard. So what? Isn't that what dirt is for?" Hank the beagle said. Morrie, his twin brother, nodded sadly. "We're running away the next time they open the back gate to take the trash out. Life here just isn't any good anymore, and it's all because of that meddlesome damn cable show."

"Don't make a move just yet. Let me work on this." Coyote got up, shook himself from head to toe. "Animal Control's a bitch in this area. You're safer staying put. It'll get better, I promise."

Hank and Morrie didn't look very convinced. Coyote figured they'd bolt anyway, just like they planned to. Damn.

Twenty dogs in one night, and that didn't even include the ones he'd visited the nights and days before. Coyote made the rounds, and everywhere, no matter where he went, the story was the same: Dogs were suffering, and it was all because of that cable tv show, "Whispering to Canines" and that damn dog doctor.

"Us canines gotta stick together." That's what Coyote always believed, that's what he always told his human pup, Dean.

Time to nut up or shut up.

* * *

_**Two days later…**_

Dr. John Karlson stepped out onto the sidewalk, closed the door to his Jeep and surveyed the place. It was a nice house, gingerbread, all brick. The lawn was thick and green and obviously well cared for. It was mid-day on a Saturday, and the neighborhood was quiet.

So far, so good. He walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

"Dean Smith?" he said to the young man who answered. Hmmm…Smith was clearly a blue collar type: muscular arms, black tee shirt, faded blue jeans and scuffed brown work boots. He was a construction worker of some sort, did manual labor, perhaps.

Smith smiled brightly. "Yep. That's me." His handshake was firm. "Come on in, Doc."

Karlson stepped through and Smith closed the door behind him. Karlson's eyes widened slightly at the mess inside the living room. The place was a wreck. The floor was nearly covered by shredded and torn newspapers and magazines. Floor lamps were overturned. The bookcase over in the far corner was knocked over. The chaos extended to what he could see of the hallway and the kitchen: overturned chairs, more shredded paper, broken china plates smeared with food.

"I sure hope you can help me, Doc." Smith jerked his thumb at the dog standing near the couch. It was a large grayish brown Alaskan Malamute with a faint black mask around his eyes. The dog had one of the couch cushions in his mouth, and he grinned happily to himself as he shook it from side to side. Bits of yellow foam flew into the air.

"Damn it, didn't I tell you to stop doin' that?" Smith went over and grabbed the opposite end of the cushion. The dog's eyes sparkled with mischief. Tug of war!

His grin got even wider as Smith pulled on his end of the cushion. The dog planted his forefeet firmly on the floor, raised his butt high in the air. His tail wagged madly back and forth. Karlson recognized the gesture; it was a play bow.

"What's his name again?" Karlson said stiffly.

"Pookie," Smith drawled over his left shoulder. "My ex-girlfriend's mutt was the neighborhood slut."

Karlson stared at 'Pookie' with narrowed eyes. "I think I have his number. Do you mind if I try something?"

The young man shrugged. "Sure. Go ahead."

Pookie's eyes widened and he backed up as Karlson walked towards him. The dog dropped the cushion, jumped up onto the couch, ran across and made a beeline for the green curtains hanging from the window nearby. Within seconds Pookie was busily pulling at the curtains with that same manic grin.

Karlson walked up behind him, reached down, dug his fingers into the thick scruff of Pookie's neck. He lifted the big dog off his forefeet and looked him in the eyes.

Pookie froze. His eyes seemed to turn gold for a second.

"You see?" Karlson said calmly. "His mother would do the same thing to discipline him. It doesn't hurt." He stared at Dean Smith, saw the same golden glint in his eyes. It lasted for a split second.

_Glare from the overhead lights_, Karlson decided. He shook the dog roughly once and released him.

Pookie dropped to the floor onto his belly and laid there gazing up at the two men with a quizzical, alert look on his face.

"There now. You've never done that to him before, I take it?" Karlson asked.

"Uh…no." Smith shook his head. He seemed startled by what Karlson had done.

"Yes, well," Karlson looked down at the dog. "He just needs a firm hand, Mr. Smith."

Smith reached up, rubbed at the back of his neck with his right hand, then slid his hand over that spiky dark blond hair of his, from front to back. He looked puzzled. "Usually I whack him upside the head with a newspaper. Or a book."

"I see."

"Only problem I really have with him is he raids the refrigerator at night and he hogs the remote."

Karlson looked around at the wreck of the house. "I'd say that's not the _only_ problem you have with him."

Smith shrugged. "I'm at my wit's end here. I wanna watch 'The Human Target' and he wants to watch 'Nature' on PBS. PBS, Doc! I think he does it just to piss me off, you know?"

"Uh, has he been fixed?"

For a split second 'Pookie' looked absolutely horrified.

"Vet says he can do it after he comes back from your place. Said it would calm him the hell down." Smith looked remorseful. "Kinda hate to do that to him, y'know? Snip his boys like that."

"It'll be for the best," Karlson said briskly. "You've already signed the papers. I'll keep Pookie at my compound for a week." He slipped the leather leash out of his jacket pocket, handed Smith his business card. "Feel free to call any time."

Karlson didn't mention that one of the papers that Smith signed turned ownership of Pookie over to him permanently. It was just one more slip of paper in a mountain of paperwork, and one that Dean Smith didn't even notice. Most likely it wouldn't even be needed. Pookie would be back home within a week's time, Karlson was sure of it. He was on the look out for that special dog, the one that would make a name for him. He hadn't found one yet, and frankly, looking at Pookie, he doubted he'd found it now.

"Hey, boy," Smith muttered. The dog looked boredly at Smith, then rose to his feet slowly. He stood there quietly as Karlson attached the leash to his collar.

No, there was nothing special here. Apparently Smith wasn't much for goodbyes, and Pookie followed Karlson out to the car quietly and without incident. The dog sat in the front seat and didn't seem to mind much when Karlson made him _sit stay good boy_ and then strapped the harness around him.

Five minutes later they were on the highway, and that was when everything changed.

Right after they merged with traffic Pookie looked at Karlson and said, "Are you gonna feed me anytime soon? Dude, I'm starving."

Karlson's head whipped around. He stared at the dog in disbelief.

"Watch it!" Pookie yelled out. Karlson glanced up just in time to see the windshield fill up with bright red brake lights directly ahead.

Karlson slammed on his brakes and the Jeep fishtailed wildly, the bumper coming to a stop mere inches from the back end of a beer delivery truck.

"Geez," the dog muttered. Its voice was deep, and sounded a lot like Dean Smith's. "You still driving on your learner's permit, huh, Doc?"

All Karlson could do was sit there and stare.

* * *

"I was standing there bug-eyed with my mouth hanging wide open," Dean said. He snagged a piece of meat lovers' pizza from the pizza box on the Impala's hood and took a bite out of the slice. "Dude, I tell ya, I almost fell over when Karlson did that shaken puppy bit."

Sam was fascinated. His beer was still mostly untouched, as was his pizza slice. "So Coyote didn't mess him up right then and there?"

Dean chuckled as he leaned back against the car. He glanced up at the bright afternoon sky, laughed, and shook his head again. "I was expecting storm clouds overhead. Karlson was gonna get a lightning bolt up his ass. A roof cave-in, or the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Something. _Anything_." Dean shook his head in admiration. "Nothing happened. Oh me of little faith. The Old Man's lying on the floor like a good little obedient dog. Never thought I'd see _that_."

Sam laughed.

Dean took a bite of pizza, chewed it, then followed up with a swig of beer. "I mean, I knew Coyote was a good actor, but damn!"

Sam looked solemn. "Now what?"

Dean shrugged. "It's the Old Man's play now."

"Back in the day, Coyote could get pretty bloody with those tricks of his," Sam said slowly. Dean nodded. He remembered his past life as Coyote very well. "Think he'll kill Karlson?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Wouldn't want to be in the Doc's shoes, though."

* * *

_**Three days later…**_

Karlson rolled his eyes heavenward as he looked at the caller ID on his home office phone.

Dean Smith on line two.

Well, he might as well end this now. He'd consulted with his lawyers and the papers Smith signed were legal and binding. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about any of this now, and he was an irresponsible pet owner besides. Karlson didn't feel sorry for him, not in the least.

Dr. Karlson snatched the phone up out of the cradle, and then caught himself. He had the upper hand. No reason he couldn't be civil about this. "Good morning. Mr. Smith. How are you today?"

"You sonofabitch," Smith grated out. "Where's my damn dog?"

Karlson rolled his eyes. "He's alive and well and quite happy, Dean. May I call you Dean?" A deep growl was the only response. "And he's not your dog anymore."

"You didn't explain that to me when I signed those papers."

Karlson sniffed. "Well. It's not my fault that you didn't read the fine print. Did they teach you remedial reading when you went to high school, or was it because you spent all that time in juvenile hall?"

"What did you say?"

"I did a background check on you, Mr. Smith." Karlson smiled coldly, even though Dean couldn't see it. "You signed the papers, you gave him to me, and anyway, which one of us are people going to believe? You, a person who barely got their GED and has a record as a juvenile delinquent, or me? I have two degrees," Karlson said grandly, "and a national television show. You needn't worry about Ranger anymore."

"R-Ranger? His name's Pookie! What the hell did you ---"

"He wanted another name, so I let him pick Ranger. It's better than the one you gave him." Karlson wrinkled his nose like he was smelling a gas leak. "Pookie. I mean, _really_. No wonder he didn't want to do a thing you asked him to."

"He's still my dog ---"

"Legally, he's not. Tell you what. When I finish the book, I'll send you a copy. Free."

"You lousy bastard ---" Karlson shook his head ruefully at the string of profanity that erupted over the phone lines as he hung up. Smith might have been only a high school dropout, but he certainly knew how to string together a colorful set of curse words.

* * *

To be concluded Saturday.


	3. Whisper This Part 2

**Whisper This – Part 2**

_Entertainment Tonight_ and _Access Hollywood_ were each going to send a reporter and a cameraman. Fox News, Yahoo, NBC, CBS, CNN and ABC were right on board, as were several of the more influential internet bloggers. Karlson put the phone down and sat back in his big burgundy leather office chair.

He'd heard the rumors about himself, that he liked Johnny Walker Blue Label and José Padrón just a little too much. Well, yeah, he did. Sometimes. Tequila and whiskey were made to be imbibed. What was so wrong with _that_? Karlson knew what they were thinking: That guy who talks to dogs claims he's finally found a dog who talks back. In English.

Yeah, this ought to be good.

_Oh yes, you media vultures. It will be._ Karlson smiled to himself as he got up from his desk. It was time to check in on his cash cow and see how he was doing.

* * *

Ranger sat on the couch in his room, nearly hip deep in squeaky and rawhide chew toys. The television was on, and the dog leaned forward, head tilted alertly to one side, watching intently as Tyra Banks told a sobbing contestant that she had better hold onto her day job.

Karlson felt his fingers twitch. He wanted to walk right over, grab the animal by the collar and make it get down, but he couldn't. It was a reflex action. Humans were the masters, and dogs were supposed to know their place, but you don't piss off the goose, ah, dog, that could lay the golden egg.

In this case, book deals, international acclaim, maybe even a motion picture deal with the good folks at Disney, for God's sake, everything that Karlson knew he wanted and knew he deserved. Then he could stop with that stupid cable show and get down to the business of making some serious money.

Ranger was good for one book deal after another, for years and years to come. PBS was good for at least one documentary on the mutt; Karlson didn't doubt that for a second. They'd done several on that gorilla that knew sign language, didn't they?

All that had been right underneath Dean Smith's nose and then some. Dumb bastard.

Karlson cleared his throat. "Well, now, Ranger, how are you today?"

The dog didn't answer at first. He was finally able to tear his gaze away from the television. "Fine," the animal said sullenly.

"What's the matter?"

"Glory got sent home," Ranger muttered. He jerked his head at the television. Apparently Glory was the leggy red-head sobbing her heart out as she ran off the stage of _America's Top Model_ for the final time. "Wanted her to win," he grumbled.

"That's too bad," Karlson faked interest, and for a moment he wondered if Ranger could sense he really_ didn't_ give a damn.

Apparently not. Maybe that was a trade-off for being able to talk. Whatever.

Karlson sat down on the couch. "Now do you remember what we discussed before? Tomorrow morning we're going to tape a segment of my television show here at the house. There will be a lot of reporters and news media here. I want you to talk in front of the camera. Tell them a little about yourself."

Ranger stared at the floor. His mouth trembled and his ears drooped a little. "People make me nervous," he said shyly.

"Do I make you nervous?"

"Nope!" the dog said happily.

"You do this, and you'll get more sirloin steaks, more Kong toys, anything you want. I mean _anything_. You can even talk about the home you came from. Do you miss Dean?"

"Uh uh. He fed me once a day. He was stingy with the food, too." Ranger wrinkled his nose. "Cheap stuff. Yeech."

"Did you ever talk in front of him?"

"No. I was too scared."

"So he stifled you."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Do you like living with me?"

Ranger grinned wolfishly. "Yep! You feed me three times a day!" His long bushy tail wagged back and forth as he warmed to the subject. "An' you let me watch tv all day long. Dean always fussed at me. He was bossy."

"Did he ever hit you?"

"Yup, yup, yup. Upside the head. Every day. Sometimes he'd lock me up down in the basement when he went to work and he'd get mad when I had to pee an' stuff when I couldn't hold it in. An' he wouldn't let me hump his leg ---"

That was quite enough. "All right then. I rescued you from a deplorable home. Horrible conditions. Do you know what 'deplorable' means?"

The dog frowned, then yelped, "Bad! I know that word 'cause one'a his girlfriends told him that before she left him. She called him an 'insensitive macho bastard'." Pookie stuck his chest out proudly "I know what those words mean too!"

"Uh, yeah. That's right. Dean's bad."

Ranger looked suddenly fearful. "You're not gonna get me fixed, are you? Dean was gonna fix me."

"You? Of course not." _I want you to breed like a bunny rabbit. _Karlson leaned towards the dog. "You know, Ranger, I can get you any bitch you want."

Ranger pricked his ears. "Really?"

Karlson nodded. "Really."

"Lassie?" Ranger said hopefully.

"Yes. Lassie." There was no need to mention that all the Lassies had been boys, unless, of course, Ranger liked that sort of thing. One collie dog was as good as another.

Ranger's eyes lit up. Karlson hoped he would be this animated in front of the cameras.

"Okay. I'll do it." Ranger wriggled all over with excitement. "I'll say whatever you want me to!"

"Good boy."

* * *

_**The next day **_

Karlson felt a thrill of anticipation as he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked casual, but not too formal in pressed blue jeans, a black blazer, a white shirt open at the neck, and a maroon ascot.

Up until now he'd refused to let anyone else around the dog. The less people knew about this, the better. No one else was going to write a book about the animal, no one else could lay claim to him, including and especially that ne'er do well Dean Smith.

Karlson would be set for life after this, and he had no doubt that Ranger would do whatever he wanted him to. The dog could talk, but he had the IQ of a four year old. There was nothing crafty or devious there.

Ranger was sitting on the couch licking his balls when Karlson entered his room.

"All right, Ranger," he said to the dog. "It's time. You say the things we talked about, okay? And afterwards you'll get all the steak you can eat and more toys. Understand?"

"Steak an' toys, steak an' toys!" Ranger said gleefully. He jumped off the couch and his tail wagged back and forth as Karlson put the leash on him.

He was one happy pup.

Nope, nothing sly or crafty there.

* * *

Showtime.

The cameras were rolling as Karlson walked Ranger out onto the patio out back. The good doctor stood there as he unhooked the dog's leash, made him sit and stay right beside him.

Karlson started talking: "To be able to converse with one of God's fellow creatures in our own language, well, my friends, this is truly a momentous occasion, one that will change the way we humble humans view our fellow creatures on planet Earth."

Coyote sat relaxed and easy. He was glad this was nearly over. He missed Bobby's place, missed Dean, Sam, John and Bobby too.

Some of the media people were tweeting. Coyote really didn't understand that one. None of them looked like birds, and he didn't see any feathers, but according to Sam, tweeting was a _good _thing.

Wouldn't be long now.

Letterman and Leno still owed the Old Man big-time. And he had dirt on Rupert Murdoch. 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' wasn't _exactly_ true.

They were going to run this thing into the freakin' _ground_.

"Okay now, Ranger," Karlson said with a grand flourish. "Tell us about yourself. I want you to talk to these fine people just like you've been talking to me all week long."

Coyote as Ranger looked straight into the cameras and said one word: "Woof."

Over and over again.

* * *

_**Hours later**_

Karlson sat in his living room and watched the news reports. He was on every single channel, looking like a deer in the headlights as the reporters crowded around him, shouting questions like "Do you think you need help for your drinking problem?" and "When was the last time you saw a psychiatric counselor, Dr. Karlson?"

It got worse. And it was all caught on camera.

Pookie kept saying "Woof", and Karlson felt it all slipping through his fingers like sand.

"Uh, Ranger?"

"Woof! Woof!"

Somebody in the crowd laughed, and that was when Karlson got angry. He picked Ranger up by the scruff of his neck with both hands and shook him hard. "Talk, damn you! Why the hell won't you talk?"

Ranger whined like a week old puppy.

"You said you'd talk on camera!" He shook Pookie again, and the dog cringed.

Twelve reporters pulled out their phones and started tweeting.

That was in addition to the eight who were already tweeting like mad sonsofbitches.

"You promised me, damn it!" Karlson raged. "You said you would!"

Ranger threw back his head and howled, loud, long, and mournful.

Fucking mutt.

At that point Karlson could see the headline now: _Dog Doctor Abuses Defenseless Pooch On Camera._

Yep, that definitely complicated things, all right.

Karlson switched the remote off and threw the universal remote into a far corner. The damn thing shattered into several pieces, but he didn't give a damn. He leaned over in his easy chair, reached down and groped around for the bottle of tequila. He took a long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. To hell with using a glass. That worm was gonna die tonight.

He was done. It was over. He'd gotten calls from the network; sponsors were pulling out like rats leaving a sinking ship.

In the morning he was going to pay Dean Smith a visit. Maybe with a baseball bat. Couldn't get any worse, right?

Karlson groaned and shook his head. That was the tequila talking. The last thing he needed as an assault charge that would land him in jail. One thing he definitely was going to do though: drop-kick Ranger, no, that _Pookie_ into the nearest animal shelter.

The dog was in a cage out back, by the pool. There was a full moon tonight, and as soon as the moon rose full and white into the night sky Pookie started howling.

Karlson frowned.

The dog didn't sound like an Alaskan Malamute.

Pookie sounded like a coyote.

Karlson went over to the window just in time to see Pookie perched on top of the cage. There was something radically wrong with that picture.

The cage was still locked.

Karlson blinked. He could still see the padlock on the door latch.

Pookie stood up easily on his hind legs.

"Hey, John boy!" the dog crowed. "What's that _sound_? He cocked his head to one side, put one paw up to his ear. "Huh. Oh wait, I know. It's the sound of all your books and videos being tossed into dumpsters all over the US of A. Goodbye, book deals, so long, Disney!"

Pookie made a sizzling sound as he extended his right paw downward, and at the end of the gesture he wiggled his paw in a jittering motion and mimicked the sound of a loud explosion. "That's your career, buddy boy! _Shot down in flames_!"

The moonlight intensified around Pookie's form, and what was left in his place was an oversized, Hollywood handsome coyote.

Karlson stared. The creature's eyes glowed pure golden, and Karlson got it then. He'd been had, all right. He'd been tricked by one of the First, one of the oldest.

Coyote hopped down from the cage, strutted jauntily on all fours over to the tall hedge and cleared it in one bound.

"_Loser_!" Roamer yelped happily from the other side. "See _ya_, wouldn't wanna _be_ ya!"

Karlson flinched. There wasn't enough Johnny Walker Blue Label in the world to drown all this out.

That didn't stop him from trying.

* * *

Coyote faded into Bobby Singer's Salvage yard a minute later. He stopped and scented the air. Bobby had been busy with that propane grill of his. Coyote smelled barbequed chicken, and he knew there was a plate covered with tin foil waiting for him in the oven. Yeah, sure, he could always magic up a plate of chicken on his own, but it always seemed to taste better if Bobby cooked it.

Dean was sprawled in that easy chair in the living room watching _Zombieland._ Sam was on his laptop emailing some of his friends from college. John Winchester and Bobby Singer sat at the kitchen table drinking beer and swapping stories about the hunt.

All was right with the world. The Old Man could sense it. As soon as the news about Karlson hit, Piper's humans let her bark at the mailman as much as she wanted. Bosco in St. Louis got a plateful of table scraps (and a honking huge hambone to gnaw on) and Gus' people tossed the crate into the dumpster almost immediately.

That happened over and over again, all over the country.

Days ago Morrie and Hank in Garland, Texas had been dumb enough to leave their yard, and sure enough, Animal Control nabbed them after a few hours of aimless wandering on the streets.

Coyote transported them out of their cages and put them back in their yard with a thought (_what part of 'stay put' didn't you dummies understand?_), and then, just for good measure, he unlocked the front door to the pound, opened up the cages and let _all_ the dogs out.

He even released all the cats. Bast the Cat Goddess was _still_ mad at him about that unfortunate business up in Salt Lake City, and he figured doing that would make it up to her.

Well, sorta.

Coyote ran up the front steps to Bobby's house and ghosted through the front door.

_Us dogs gotta stick together,_ the Old Man thought, _and that's a fact._

_

* * *

**Half an hour later**_

Karlson had an epiphany after the tequila (including the worm) was all gone, and Johnny Walker Blue Label had left the building: he'd failed because he wasn't in touch with his inner dog.

Sure. That was_ it_.

He got down on all fours, and he howled. It felt good.

Karlson was still drunk the next day when two Animal Control agents, Blake and Connors, dropped by to check on Ranger.

"Pookie? Ya don't hafeta worry 'bout 'im," Karlson slurred drunkenly. "I didn't kill him. He turned into Coyote and jumped the fence."

"Uh, right. _Sure_ he did."

"Taught me a lesson. Yep. He did. You wanna see?"

The agents stared at him warily.

Connors seemed like a nice lady, so Karlson humped her leg.

Blake made a phone call. Karlson didn't recognize half of what was said. Words like "psychiatric ward" didn't mean very much now. He grinned at the cops when they showed up, and wiggled his butt happily. _Road trip!_

It was a nice day for a ride in the car, but they handcuffed him and they wouldn't let him stick his head out the back window.

Karlson didn't understand why.

He was a good dog now.

_-finis-_


	4. Pretty As A Picture

_**Still another A/N:**_ Coyote has been bugging me about posting something, anything. I wanted to post this as a new fic but the system wouldn't let me. I know about the temporary fix for that, but I just don't feel right not being able to say what characters and what 'verse my fics are in, so I decided to post this to _A Good Dog Is Hard To Find_.

I'm still very leery (okay, say it, _chicken_ is a better word) about letting Samirah and the _Black Horse _crew out if the posting problem hasn't been fixed. I know about the temporary fix for updating established fics. Give me a couple of days to get my courage up, okay?

_**Regularly scheduled A/N:**_ Dedicated to all talented artists like StrawberryNVanilla, Deannawesson, ThruTerry'sEyes on DeviantArt, LJ and everywhere. And then there are the ones who should step away from Photoshop. Hmmm, maybe Coyote should visit them in another one shot…

_**Summary:**_ Dean finds out that Coyote's moonlighting on the side to pay off some old debts held by devious Deangirls. Mostly dialogue. I blame my muse.

* * *

"Hey, Old Man -"

"Ahhhh! Pup, give a 'yote some warnin', will ya? Quit popping in like that. Geez!"

"Sorry, I…wait a minute. What the hell is all this?"

"..."

"What 's going on?"

"Um…nothing."

"Uh huh. Nothing's going on, huh? What's with the feathered head dress? You look like Geromino or Sitting Bull."

Coyote scoffs. "Dude. I'm the Fine Young Chief Howling In the Dawn In the East."

"You look just like me. You're two legged."

"Well, so? I don't go furry and four legged alla damn time."

"You got no shirt on, and what's up with those black leather pants? Kinda tight, aren't they? This place looks like some half-assed photo shoot, and you're telling me nothing's going on?"

"Yeah. Nothing's going on. You can leave now."

"Nope. Ain't gonna. Not until you tell me what's going on."

A big burly stagehand walks by and grins at both of them. "Hey, Jensen! Dude, your brother looks just like you!"

"Jensen? Jensen?"

"Crap!"

"Still waiting. Not leaving."

"Oh, all right! Fangirls."

"Fangirls?"

"Deangirls. They…they won't leave me alone."

"And you owe some of them favors, don't you?"

"Yeah. I still don't know how they did it. I'd forgotten some of those favors. They're from back in the day. I mean _waay _back in the day. Those Deangirls aren't even the original owners, for cripes' sake, and somehow they got their hands on those favors. They're callin' 'em in left and right. So…I gotta pose like this, 'cause pretty boy won't do it. He's too much of an _actor_ now. He's grown up and mature." Coyote bares his teeth as he growls. "_Hmph._ Won't even show any skin anymore. If he did I wouldn't have to do any of this."

"Uh huh. And you actually expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"Yeah. Uh…do you?"

"Nope. Those puppy dog eyes aren't working."

Coyote sighs. Then he pulls a Blackberry Torch out from _somewhere_.

"Hold on. Are you…are you _tweeting_?"

"Yeah. I'm tweeting that my pup is uncaring and bossy."

"What?"

"It's true."

"No it's not. I'm not like that."

"Yes, you _are_."

"So, you're telling everybody out there that I'm uncaring and bossy?"

"Yep. 'cause you are."

"First Facebook, now this. Damn. I knew Sam never should've told you what twitter is. And where the hell do you keep that thing stashed, anyway?"

"Niño, I'm not the only trickster on twitter. I got twelve million followers. Top that, Misha Collins!"

"Oh, brother. Ego much?"

"Yeah, and why not? I'm God's Dog. Well, you are too!"

Another stagehand walks by. "Five minutes, Mr. Ackles. That nude shower scene is next." The dude winks and leers at the Old Man. "I can't tell you how much we're all looking forward to _that_."

All of the crew members, male and female, give each other thumbs ups and high fives all around.

Dean slowly scrubs his palm down his face. "Oh, crap. Why the hell don't you just magic up some fake shots and call it a day?"

Coyote looks wide-eyed and offended. "What? And give up show business?"

-30-


End file.
